The weight of water - Anita Shreve [66]
He made his way limpingly to the chair and sat upon it with a great sigh. When he had been well, I had observed him hoisting the dory from the water as if it were a child’s plaything; now he seemed barely capable of lifting his arm from the table. He had lost considerable weight, and his hair was disheveled and in need of a wash. Despite his appearance, however, he seemed that day pleased with himself, and he smiled when I brought to him the bowl of coffee.
“I am in debt to you for your kindness,” he said after he had taken a swallow.
“It’s nothing,” I said to him in English, as I always did, since neither of us could speak the other’s language. “We hope only to make you well again.”
“And that I will be, if I remain in your hands.”
“We are all concerned for your health,” I said. “My husband and his brother.”
“But you are the nurse. I am a great burden to you.”
“Oh, no,” I said, hastening to assure him that he was welcome. But he shook his head.
“In this country, I have been nothing but a burden. I’ve had no luck and have not made my mark. I owe money to everyone, and I see no real prospects of a job.”
“You have work with my husband,” I pointed out.
“But I’m not working now, am I? I’m sick. I can’t even pay my rent to you.”
“Don’t be thinking of that now. You should be thinking of getting well,” I said.
“Yes?” he asked, suddenly brightening. “Do you think you will make me well, Mrs. Hontvedt?”
“I will try…,” I said, somewhat embarrassed. “But you are hungry. Let me feed you now.”
“Yes, Mrs. Hontvedt. Please feed me.”
I turned to him as he said this, and he was smiling, and I thought for a moment he might be mocking me, but then I dismissed the notion. I had been waiting for the soup to come to the boil when he had knocked, and now I stirred it and poured some into a bowl. I had in addition the flatbrød that I had baked earlier in the day. The soup was a fish chowder and had, if I may say so, a wonderful aroma, so much so, in fact, that I was compelled to pour myself a bowl.
Louis sipped from his bowl with an inelegant sucking sound, and I thought that he had probably not ever been much on manners. I observed, as he drank, that his copper beard badly needed trimming, and that while I had been fairly diligent with his laundry, his lying in bed so many hours of the day had stained his shirt around the neck and under the arms. I was thinking that perhaps, if I could find some proper cloth, I would make him a new shirt while he was recovering.
“You are a good cook,” he said, looking up from the soup.
“Thank you,” I said, “but fish soup is easy, is it not?”
“I can’t cook myself,” he said. He put his spoon down. “You are lonely here?”
To my surprise, I blushed. I was so rarely ever asked questions of a personal nature.
“No,” I said. “I have my dog, Ringe.”
“Your dog,” he said, observing me. “Is he enough?”
“Well, I have my husband…”
“But he is gone all the day.”
“And I have work. There is always a great deal to do here. You have seen this.”
“Too much work makes for a dull life,” he said, and again smiled to reveal his teeth. He brushed his hair, which had grown long and somewhat greasy and overhung his forehead, with his fingers. “Do you have a pipe?” he asked.
I was, for the moment, confused by this request. I didn’t know whether John would like me to share his tobacco with this boarder, but I didn’t quite know how to refuse Louis Wagner.
“My husband sometimes smokes in the evenings,” I said.
Louis tilted his head at me. “But he is not here during the day, is he?”
“There are pipes,” I said uncertainly.
Louis simply smiled at me and waited.
After a time, uncomfortable